


Like Fine Wine

by justfortune



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24395629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justfortune/pseuds/justfortune
Summary: Valerius heads back to Venterre for a well-needed vacation, only to find an old flame employed at his family residence.
Relationships: Valerius (The Arcana)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Like Fine Wine

Like a Fine Wine 

Valerius heads back to Venterre for a well-needed vacation, only to find an old flame employed at his family residence. 

Words. 4.1k   
Rating. M (citrus) 

Valerius drew back the curtains to look out the carriage window. Gone were the shit-strewn city streets he was forced to tread day in and day out, forgotten were the fetid fields churning out sub-par stock to turn into swill they called wine up in the capital. What greeted him instead were rolling hills, carved into neat and tidy rows and illuminated by the setting sun’s orange haze. He closed his eyes to breathe. Loamy soil and freshness in the warm air brought him back to his youth, to the piercing feeling in his lungs as he raced alongside the horses towards his retreat from lessons and day-to-day drudgery. Home, he thought to himself. After a day of traveling and years of work put in at the Vesuvian palace, the Venterrien was finally home. 

The carriage needn’t stop on its way in for the crest it bore on its side: one of the House of the Comtesse of Venterre, matched on the gate held open for the party. An impatient Valerius tapped his fingers on his thighs in anticipation, knowing full-well that it would be unbecoming of a last-born child of a Comte to thrust his head out the window to look upon the vacation home he’d been dreaming of since he arrived in that awful city. 

Finally, the clattering of hooves on cobblestone came to a halt. Valerius rolled his shoulders back and held his head high -- he was here, and he was to put on the highest of airs in front of the Comtesse. 

A servant opened the door; another took his arm to assist him onto the pavement. Too proud to accept, he shooed them away and disembarked himself. The servants hurried to open the twin doors to the estate; Valerius’ heels clicked behind them. 

The scene laid before him was overwhelming. His mother stood in the entryway, donning her Venterrien finery, cinched at the waist and exaggerated at the hips and shoulder, hands held in front of her in a dignified pose. Valerius bowed at the sight of the Comtesse, who then extended her arms. “Come, my son,” came her wisened voice. “Welcome home.” 

\---

Valerius awoke to the scent of wet earth hanging in the air, humidity filling his lungs as he yawned and stretched. “Agh…” His hand shot up to his temple. Pain. It pulsed through the Consul’s skull with every heartbeat. Upon hearing the stir, a servant knocked at the door. 

“You may enter,” grumbled the Vesuvian Consul, stretching his legs beneath the sheets. 

The servant scurried inside and busied themself pouring their jug of warm water into the basin, the steam staying low in the thick air. They then closed the window, silencing the quiet chirping coming from outside. “Breakfast is ready downstairs, Seigneur,” they said, facing him with hands clasped before them. “Would you take it here, or join Madame la Comtesse in her dining chamber?” 

Agh, the pain. “Tell Madame la Comtesse I will not be joining her this morning; and send someone to dress me, will you?” Ah, the pleasures of nobility -- how he had missed the simple joys afforded to the son of a Comtesse. “And be quick about it!” Valerius added when they did not immediately jump into action. 

“R-right away, Seigneur --” they stammered in response “--but in this case, I have a message: Madame la Comtesse requests that you pay a visit to the vignoble today. There is a gentleman there she would like you to see.” 

A strange request. “Very well,” he replied with a dismissive wave. 

\---

Evidently his headache had been a product of the night prior’s revelry, as confirmed by its subsiding after a few cups of oversteeped black tea. But as he ventured off the beaten path on his way to the winemaker’s building, the throbbing started up again with every squish, squish, squish of his boots in the soggy grass. Valerius cursed his impatience for not allowing himself to bring his horse on the short journey. 

But that was just the start of his troubles. From the house on the hill, he saw a figure emerge and start to approach him. It must have been the gentleman his mother was referring to, broad in the shoulders and sporting a grin. So caught up was Valerius in the sight that he didn’t notice the puddle until his foot had sunken in past the ankle. He froze. The man approached. 

“Well? Are you just going to stand there gaping like a dead fish? Help me out of this mud!” 

The man laughed -- a hearty roar coming from his belly -- as he caught Valerius’ arm in his steadying grip. “Careful now -- wouldn’t want to mess up those nice boots of yours.” 

He let out a strangled little sob. With the firm hold to balance himself on, Valerius found his bearings on the bank of the mudpuddle. He tried to smooth his clothing down, to regain his composure. After a moment of useless fussing, he finally spoke: “Ridiculous -- why is my vineyard full of mud?” 

The gentleman loosened his grip but made no move to let go of his arm. “Last night’s rain couldn’t have come any sooner! Another day and we would have had to irrigate the place ourselves.” 

“Hm.” Valerius glanced down to the hand on his forearm, then for the first time to the dark eyes looking into his. He blinked. Though the crow’s feet at the corners were new, the Consul could swear those eyes were familiar… very familiar. And so he ventured: “I know you.” 

Those wrinkles deepened as the gentleman broke out into a genuine smile. His lips were wreathed in a dignified mustache above and a beard below, stately and black and sprinkled with stardust greys. That was new as well. But the rest of his face -- his full cheeks, flat nose, and eyes sparkling with mischief most of all reminded him of a schoolyard friend. 

“My Lord Consul Valérius,” sounded his spirited voice, “it’s good to see you again.” 

Those hands -- those strong, stalwart hands -- let go of him. And at once, it was as though he could no longer rely on the ground’s steadfast nature, as it seemed to shift under his feet. Valerius produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his temple; surely it must be the damp heat affecting him. 

Jacques Descoteaux. Those hands used to card through his hair, used to caress his jaw as it moved in time with the whispers they traded in the afternoon shade, finally alone after hours upon hours of daily lessons. They had been frustrating. Jacques had always excelled in diplomacy, where Valerius seemed to struggle masking his feelings, but his former classmate always found time to teach him a few social graces in a more intimate setting. And now here he was -- the eldest son of Vicomte Descoteaux himself, diplomat extraordinaire, top of his class -- coated top to bottom in a thin layer of sweat, dirt, and sunshine. 

“Descoteaux,” Valerius responded, finally coming to his senses, “it has been a long time, yes. You must forgive the way I shouted at you, I had no way of knowing it was someone of your stature tromping about my vineyard.” 

Though his expression did sink at the remark, Descoteaux maintained his sunny disposition. “It’s no matter. Come. I want to show you something, mon vieux de la vieille.” 

Valerius thought his heart had physically leapt into his throat when Descoteaux clapped him on the back and ushered him forward. 

The squishing of wet grass beneath their feet was the only sound for a few moments, before Descoteaux spoke up again. “It’s been awhile since you’ve come back to Venterre. When I started working here, your mother told me it had been several seasons since you visited home -- and that was two years ago.” 

Two years? Had it been that long? Between everything going on in Vesuvia, perhaps it was possible that time had slipped away from him. But even still… two years. That was a lot of time to pass him by. He sighed, wistful. “I suppose I simply got carried away with my work. The Countess Satrinava is a formidable leader, but her husband Lucio… requires a good deal of patience.” 

Ah, that booming laugh again. Descoteaux tossed his head back and placed a hand on his belly. “Ha! It’s exactly how I imagined. When my father got word of a mercenary captain sacking the city and taking a Prakran princess as Countess, he bet me my finest stallion their heads would rest together in a basket by the end of the year.” He gave a meaningful look in Valerius’ direction. “They’re lucky to have someone of your capability in their corner.” 

Compliments never seemed to phase Valerius. And yet here he was, red in the cheeks and fumbling for a proper response. “I… thank you, Descoteaux.” To save himself any further embarrassment, he pivoted. “And what of yourself, compatriote? What horrors of state government have you endured?” 

“Not a damned thing!” 

What? That gave Valerius pause. 

So Descoteaux continued -- “I quit! Fuck the Court, you know? I did my time wearing tight clothes and smooth-talking arseholes. And eventually, I thought -- you know what? Fuck this! It’s not worth losing sleep over some stuffy nobles’ opinions. So packed my bags and headed for Firent to learn about wine. I’ve always loved it, so I figured, why not? And now here I am, manager and head viticulturist of the Venterrienne Comtesses’ Vineyard, loving every minute of it.” 

A dumbfounded Valerius stopped in his tracks, looking over at his friend of yore. No, his face bore no signs of jest. The eldest son of the Viscount Descoteaux was, in fact, the manager and head viticulturist of his mother’s own vineyard; and he was, decidedly, loving every moment of it. He couldn’t believe his ears. “You resigned your post as Viscount so you could play in dirt?” The nobleman’s lip curled into a sneer at the mere thought of it. 

Descoteaux’ features softened. He held his hands to his stomach while he talked, moving in small gestures to emphasize his point. “Surely you’ve had the thought. Have you ever spent your night toiling away at an argument, just to have someone above you steamroll over it without hearing out a single point and thought maybe, just maybe, there’s a better life out there?” 

Valerius unclenched the fists he didn’t know he’d formed in the first place. “But to leave it all behind? That’s lunacy, friend.” He shook his head. “You must have been out of your mind.” 

“Jacques,” he corrected him gently. Jacques took a step closer so he could place his hand on his compatriot’s shoulder. From the close distance, Valerius could only concentrate on the plush of his round lips as he spoke. “Valérius, I was out of my mind. But it’s all clear now. Every morning I awake before the sun to do something meaningful, and every night I have a glass of wine as I watch the sun set over that hill.” 

Lost in the picture Jacques painted, the pair looked out to the distance. Heavy fog blurred the horizon, grey sky fading into the canopy of the surrounding woods. Leading up to it were rows upon rows of fertile vines, ripe and ready to give their season’s fruit. Jacques had made sure of that. 

What was the last thing Valerius had produced with a result as tangible as a bottle of fine Venterrien wine? He worked in the shadows, conferring with demons and getting stabbed in the back every time he let his guard down for a moment. And for what? For a flooded city that cursed his name? Leaves stirred in the gentle late-summer breeze, carrying the scent of ripe grapes to his nose. Valerius turned his attention back to Jacques. “I do not understand you,” he admitted, “but I do see the appeal.” 

A comfortable silence washed over them. 

More than once Valerius found his gaze wandering to his companion. This man was certainly not the boy he remembered. Once lanky and unsure, Jacques had filled out his frame with strength from years of working the soil, and a layer of plush from indulging in the fruits of his labor. He stood proud, shoulders squared and head high, no longer having to fill the shoes of a name he’d been born into, instead holding himself with the poise of a man who had earned his worth. Perhaps Valerius would be envious of such confidence were it not for the way his breath escaped him when rich brown eyes caught him staring. After all, a heart sent fluttering by a mere glance had little room for jealousy.

Embarrassed, Valerius turned his attention back to his surroundings. Seeing the rows of vines struck him differently than it had in his youth. What he recalled as a tall, orderly canopy now looked to him wild, shoots spread out wide and growing into each other. The chaotic masses took up more space, making for wider rows and cover crops between them. As the scenery became his surroundings, he began to notice clusters of grapes smaller than he would have predicted for the late summer, making him wonder: “something is different here. What have you done with the canopy?” 

“Ah,” Jacques mused, a pleased lilt in his voice to be given the chance to share about his craft, “when I first arrived, your family had been pruning your vines into vertical shoot positions for several seasons. It was all the rage when a Nopali winemaker coined the practice a few decades ago; you could grow 50 per-cent more grapes by compacting the rows and growing the vines upwards.” 

That made sense, but left Valerius with a question: “And we stopped because...?” 

“Your vines are of an old Venterrien ilk. They were meant to be grown the old way -- in a Cordon de Royat, bound to their trellises only by the cordons and let to grow up and out.” Jacques lifted the leaves to reveal a bunch of grapes. “Your crop is shaded from the sun this way, and let to mature slower.” 

“I see; that is why they are so immature for their age.” Valerius leaned in to observe the fruit. “When will they be sweet enough for harvest?” 

“We have a way of measuring it back in the winery; but I’ve been doing this a long time now. I can tell when my vines will be ready to be crushed by taste alone.” Jacques plucked a berry from the bunch, holding it up to Valerius. “Go ahead -- tell me what you think.” 

The grape in question was a perfect sphere, blue-black and dusted with wax bloom. He bit down on it. Immediately upon piercing the thick skin, a beautiful melody of acidic flavors with a hint of sweetness burst in his mouth, flooding his senses. A breath out his nose brought tannins to his palate, rounding out the experience. Valerius placed a hand on the viticulturist’s shoulder -- one that seemed to release a tension in his frame as he leaned back on his heels. For once, the nobleman was at a loss for words. 

Amused by his speechlessness, Jacques continued: “our days are getting shorter, but just so. One more week and she’ll be ready for crush.” 

“These are for our House Cabernet Sauvignon, are they not?” He asked, hoping to show off a bit of wisdom to the professional. 

Jacques’ infectious smile spread. “Merlot, actually. Our Cabernet grapes are on the other side of the hill; I like to let ‘em cook on the vine a little longer, or else they’ll get that green pepper taste to them.” 

A rouge rose to Valerius’ cheeks, one that brought a crinkle to Jacques’ nose. Noticing that his hand had been resting on the other’s shoulder far longer than necessary, he snatched it away. 

“Why don’t you come inside? I live above the production house; we can crack open a bottle of last year’s stock and you can tell me what you taste.” 

Relieved, Valerius nodded. “I would like that.” 

\--- 

Boots and soggy socks lay strewn about the bedroom floor, joined by overcoats thrown over the armchair in the corner. The wide doors to the patio were thrown open to the scene of two men, drunk off of old memories shared and tipsy off of the House Merlot. They shared a wooden bench overlooking the vineyard, Jacques’ feet kicked up on the coffee table and a rosy-cheeked Valerius sloshing around wine in his glass as his hands darted about in exaggerated gesticulations. 

“And then!” Valerius continued, putting a hand on Jacques’ chest, “the Duchess looked him square in the face, and said -- ‘Count Lucio, I do so cherish talking with you. I always feel intelligent after listening to you speak.’” 

And Jacques howled, gripping Valerius’ knee and doubling over to contain his glee. Valerius raised his hand to his mouth to block the unsightly face he made as he snickered, genuine delight creasing his features. Once he had finally collected himself, he asked -- “and? What did he have to say about that?” 

Valerius choked on a giggle. “Nothing!” His voice wavered with the effort it took to keep from collapsing into a fit of laughter. “That fool, ha! That poor fool got that stupid smirk on his face and thanked her, Gods bless him!” 

Gods bless Valerius -- seeing his former schoolmate erupt in joy was like staring at the sun. He could watch that man smile all day. 

“You haven’t changed at all, Valérius,” he said, shaking his head fondly. 

“Oh?” Valerius asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Were I not so self-assured, I would be insulted.” 

Jacques chuckled, repositioning himself to put his arm around the back of the bench -- and coincidentally, close enough for Valerius to feel like he was being held. His heart raced. “No, my friend. You’ve always been so adept at this whole ‘diplomacy’ thing; I knew you would do something incredible. Now look at you. You’re entertaining Duchesses, working with Counts, running a city.” 

The pride shining in his eyes had Valerius’ ears burning with embarrassment. “You are… very different from the Jacques Descoteaux I remember.” 

“I know,” replied Jacques. “I am happy.” 

“I can tell.” 

Lost in thought, they both sipped their wine. 

It was Valerius who broke the silence. “Do you remember the first time we laid with each other?” 

Jacques chuckled. “I’d hardly call giving you sloppy head in a barn ‘laying with each other’.” 

Recalling the memory, Valerius turned a deep shade of crimson. “Not that time!” He tilted his head to lay in his hand. “The time Madame Panache took us to Zadith. We got put in the same room, and we…” 

“...Fucked like rabbits every second we got alone? Yeah, I remember.” 

That face! Valerius couldn’t bear the tender look he was giving him behind his crass words and brought a hand to mask his own expression, soft laughs breaking through the gaps in his fingers. “You and I remember that week very differently,” he admitted. 

“No,” Jacques corrected him, brushing away that hand, “I remember ‘laying with’ you the first time. You wouldn’t shut up about how much you hated the Firenti Consul and his terrible taste in palatial décor--” 

“Gods, it was indefensible. Red, blue, and yellow? They are meant to be running a government, not a childcare facility. I hope for their reputation’s sake they have made improvements since then.” 

That earned a chuckle from the stouter gentleman. “That didn’t stop you from taking me on that red, blue, and yellow bed.” 

Valerius caught his response on the tip of his tongue, and kept it there with a sip of wine. 

“Look,” said Jacques, nodding towards the horizon. “The sun’s about to set.” 

Jacques was right. Valerius squinted to see the blinding light touch the line of the canopy, casting the world in an orange radiance. He glanced to his side to see the sheen of a day spent in warm outdoor bliss glow bright, bringing out the cherry undertones in his companion’s dark brown cheeks. How calm, how free a life he must live here, Valerius thought to himself, to be able to enjoy a pleasure like this every evening. 

Jacques turned to say something -- but Valerius acted before he could think. Winestained smiles met in a kiss between them, chaste. When the nobleman opened his eyes once more, he found that his friend’s grin had vanished, replaced by a warmth he couldn’t place. Half-lidded eyes met his gaze only for a moment before they closed, and it was Valerius’ turn to be brought into a kiss. The arm on the back of the bench curled around his shoulders. Breath still hitched in his throat, he cupped his friend’s face with a gentle touch. 

Minutes slipped away as the pair melted into each other, cautiously testing boundaries and using their touch to make up for lost time. It ended with Jacques’ waistcoat unbuttoned and Valerius’ braid undone, fingers having run through his ombre waves until they shone in the waning light. Their foreheads touched. 

“Gods, I haven’t had a kiss like that in a long time,” Jacques panted. 

Valerius couldn’t help but agree; it had been exactly since their last breathless tryst decades ago that he had felt this alive, this exhilarated by sharing sparks with another person. “I have missed this.” 

Jacques pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, one that had Valerius’ eyelids feeling heavy. His hand was large enough to cup the other man’s head when he ran a thumb along his jaw. Valerius leaned into it. Lips pressed to the heel of Jacques’ hand, he let himself drift, lost in the sea of dopamine his brain was rewarding him with. 

“I wasn’t being truthful when I said you hadn’t changed.” A kiss to his temple. “You’ve grown more beautiful with age.” Like a fine wine. 

The words murmured by ear dragged Valerius up from the depths. It was not lost on him that the words were dripping in saccharine, but from Jacques, it seemed to fit. Feeling bolder for the wine in his veins and the sentimental turn the conversation had taken, Valerius hitched up a knee to slide onto a surprised Jacques’ lap. He ran his hands over the coarse, close-cropped hair on his head. The viticulturist raised an eyebrow. 

“Perhaps we ought to try lying together in a more... picturesque setting,” suggested Valerius after a fleeting kiss. 

The sunset certainly fit the bill. Wasting no time on words, Jacques gripped his lover by the hips and leaned up to whisper against his jowl, embrasse-moi. And so Valerius closed the distance between them, taking him into a heated kiss as he settled into his lap. The half-hard cock he found there had him grinning, impish and exhilarated. Spreading his legs wider, he angled to get in closer and rub themselves together, winning him a moan out of Jacques and -- “ahh,” -- a bite to his lip, followed by a squeeze of his ass that made his heart race. 

Hands resting on Jacques’ biceps, he tilted his head back to let his loose hair fall down behind him, past his shoulders and back down to the seat of the bench in a cascade of waves the braid left behind. Jacques took the opportunity to trail his mouth down the column of his throat, making Valerius shiver. He nipped at the tender skin. Polished fingernails dug into his shirtsleeves. With a hiss, he shifted his hips to find Jacques’ erection strain against him. “J-- ha!-- Jacques,” Valerius stuttered, “I want --oh…” The gentleman in question had busied himself sucking a mark into his lover’s neck. “I want to have you.” 

“Mmm.” Jacques’ mouth let go of his neck. “How do you want me?” 

“I want you inside of me. Please.” 

He contemplated the request a moment. “We aren’t in a hurry, mon amour.” As if to emphasize his point, Jacques brought him into a kiss, chaste and lingering. “No need to rush. We’ve had quick fucks between us.” Another kiss. Strong hands traveled down his thighs. “Head inside. I’ve got some oil and a few blankets we can use. Let’s take our time, yeah?” 

And when he put it that way, how could Valerius say no?


End file.
